


Starry Heart

by LouPF



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But also, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Indian Harry Potter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person, aka: i write what i want to read, also hogwarts, house elf magic!! house elf culture!!!, i want to write hogwarts, languages! clans! beliefs and needs and history!, listen im claiming these guys before jk rowling does, look guys i have tons of things i want to add, we're talking politics and laws and the ministry fucking these guys over
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-23 13:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouPF/pseuds/LouPF
Summary: The Potter bloodline dates back centuries. They're purebloods, even if they're not part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.Of course they have house elves.James Potter's last command to Whisk is to protect and take care of Harry if anything would happen to James himself.Whisk is ready to break a thousand laws to complete her master's final wish.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so freaking excited for this you have no idea!! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated ^^
> 
> This prologue is in Whisk's POV. She'll probably have more stories to tell for at least two more chapters, then Harry's going to be butting in.
> 
> Anything you want me to add? Leave a comment and I just might!
> 
> I'm also on tumblr! Questions about the story or its lore? Shoot me an ask or a DM! I'm louthegreatfurry! (https://louthegreatfurry.tumblr.com/)

There are some moments in one’s life that determine the fate of the world.

James Potter going against the wishes of his wife is one of them.

*

Whisk is the bloodtrue elf of the Potter family. The two elves working under her were bought because of necessity; she – or rather, her bloodline – has been in the family for centuries. Her mother worked for the Potters, as did her mother’s mother, and the elf before that, and before that as well.

Three house elves to cover a pureblood mansion isn’t quite enough while someone lives there, but no one has set foot in the Potter mansion for years. Between the three of them, they manage to stave off the dust and the grime just fine.

The Potters are aware of their existence, of course. Still, none of them have been called upon since master James moved in with mistress Lily.

Until now, that is.

Whisk stands tall and proud before master James, pillowcase straightened in an excited hurry, hands balled into fists to keep her from fiddling with its hem. “Master called?” she asks, voice trembling.

Master James is bent over an office desk, the candlelight flickering over his once-wild hair. He looks over at her, a tired glint to his eyes. It’s the first time she sees him in years. Time hasn’t been kind on him. “I did,” he admits, and even his voice sounds tired. “Whisk. I’m about to give you the most important task you will ever be faced with.”

Whisk straightens. A task in itself will always be important - but the _most important of them all?_

She nods eagerly to show she’s listening.

Master James hands her a printed picture. On it is a young human toddler, skin and hair the same dark as master James’, giggling silently as he thrashes around. “This,” master James says, and Whisk snaps her focus back up at him, “is Harry James Potter. My son.”

Whisk gasps delightedly, hands coming up to clasp beneath her chin. “A child! Master James didn’t tells the elves about master James’ child!” she exclaims.

“I didn’t,” master James hurriedly whispers, “but that is _not_ what’s important right now!” He visibly calms himself down, rubbing his thumb across his brow. “The Potter line is in grave danger,” he says. Whisk remains silent. The fireplace crackles; master James glances over at it, lines of worry etched permanently into his flesh. After a moment he looks back at her. “If anything happens to me and Lily, I want you to take care of Harry. People will try to stop you, but you must not let them.” He straightens up, then, taking a deep breath. “I trust you, Whisk,” he admits. “But in these times, I can’t trust anyone. Don’t be offended at the strict language - I need to be sure everything will go according to plan.” He hands her a folded parchment. It’s splotched with ink and coffee. “Everything written on this paper is hereby a strict command, overriding every and any command you have gotten before. Read it. Read it all.”

Whisk nods, taking the paper from his steady hands.

When she looks up again, there are tears streaking her cheeks. “Whisk understand, master James,” she whispers.

He looks away, into the fiery fire. He rubs his knuckles. Again, then again, skin worn and dry. “I hope it doesn’t come to this,” he whispers. “But you need to understand that it might.”

Whisk nods again. “Whisk understand, master James,” she repeats. She hesitates, then looks up at him with solemn eyes. “It has beens an honor serving yous, master.”

He glances back at her with a warm smile that almost blurs out the worry lines marring his face. “It’s been an honor being served by you, Whisk.” Then the smile fades, and he returns to his desk. “Dismissed.” It’s a grave word, handed over in absolute seriousness.

It's a death sentence.

When Whisk pops out of the room, apparating back to the manor to pass the information on, they both expect it to be the last time they talk.

And in a baby crib up the stairs in a house on Godric’s Hollow, baby Harry Potter beams at his doting mother.

*

Months pass. Whisk doesn’t forget about these new orders, because house elves never forget an order.

She returns to her other duties. She works side by side with her two friends, sings with them as she cleans, tends to the gardens and falls in love with the Potter mansion over and over again. This is, after all, the place she’s grown up in. This is where she’s loved and been loved, and where she hopes to spend her very last days.

And then, one fateful and dark day, her magic twinges around her, twisting around her wrists in agony, wailing, screeching -

She stands up so abruptly that the pillow she’d been sitting on is flung across the room. Misty and Tops look at her with wide eyes; they’d felt it, too, just not as strongly.

They don’t say anything to each other. They just nod.

Before Whisk has the time to do anything, the magic twinges again - less painfully, this time, and she grits her teeth against the knowledge that both Master James and Mistress Lily are now gone forever.

“Good luck,” Misty whispers, the soft tones of Täk falling easily off their tongue after years of practice.

Whisk nods then apparates out of the mansion -

and straight into the smoking remains of master James’ house.

She raises one hand to her trembling lips; master James is laying in the hallway, half-buried beneath rubble from the roof. Closing her eyes, she whispers a brief farewell, hoping to ease his passing somewhat.

(her heart wails, for a few brief moments, and will continue to do this for years to come. he was a good master, and her mother taught her well.)

Stepping over his body she hurries past the living room and up the stairs. Every step seems fateful, bearing some sort of imaginary weight and meaning. The house is quiet, except for the creak and groan of collapsing wood.

A piece of the roof lets go and crashes into the floor beside her; she keeps on walking, determined to make it to the top.

Young master Harry is still alive. She knows he is; there were only two deaths today.

The roof has caved in - half of it is missing - in young Harry’s room, but the babe is still sleeping through the cold.

Or...

Whisk steps over the discarded robes on the floor and waves a hand over young Harry’s face. She sighs sadly, then reaches for him, careful to bundle and wrap him up in the blanket from the crib. Poor babe has fainted from stress. There’s blood trickling down his face - a curse wound, by the looks of it. She has to hurry back if she is to heal it properly. Gently she brushes her knuckles across the thin cut, cooing softly when young Harry squirms.

“ _Harry_ ,” she whispers, her voice a soft whisper on the breeze ruffling through the broken remains of the house. She speaks Täk, for Täk is the language of the house elves. “You’re safe, dear heart,” she continues, caressing the sleeping babe’s cheek. “You’re safe.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaah sorry for saying there was only one chapter - my bad! I apologize.
> 
> This is going slower than I expected (story-time wise - i wanted to be at least three weeks into the story by now, but instead we are three HOURS into it. fucking great.), so who knows how long it'll become...
> 
> Which house do you think Harry will be in? :O Leave a comment; the winners get a shout-out!

Whisk doesn’t waste another moment before returning to the Potter mansion. She’s no healer elf – Misty, however, is, and young Harry needs to be attended to.

She’s greeted at the fireplace by Misty and Tops, who both sigh in relief upon laying eyes on the bundle in her arms.

“Tops,” Whisk says, facing said elf, “go to the house and grab as many pictures, notebooks, and personal belongings as you can. He needs to know who his parents were.”

Tops – an elf who never educated himself in anything specific – nods briefly before popping out of the mansion. Whisk immediately turns to Misty, pushing the babe into their arms. “He needs help,” she says, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Misty nods as well before folding aside the blanket to take a look at the sleeping babe. Their face pales. “Oh,” they whisper, their gaze locked on the lightning-bolt cut on Harry’s forehead. “A curse wound…” They frown, then shift his weight over on one arm to snap their fingers.

Misty drops the babe, and Whisk has to bolt forward to catch him before he crashes to the floor. “Misty!” she chastises.

But Misty doesn’t answer. They’ve gone white as the sheet they wear around their neck, hands trembling as they clutch them beneath their chin. “Oh, no,” they whisper.

“What?” Whisk asks, protectively holding Harry to her chest. He’s been in her care for only a few minutes and there’s _already_ something wrong with him –

“He needs help _right now_ ,” Misty says, popping out of the room before Whisk can stop them.

Desperate to understand, Whisk follows their trail and pops after them into their own private rooms.

“- and if too long time passes then there is nothing we can do – ” Misty babbles, apparently having continued the sentence without waiting for Whisk to catch up. They’ve gathered some cloth in their arms and are currently taking every single healing potion they own down from their shelf. They finish, then pop again.

Whisk follows.

“ – don’t care what you two do but I have to go and I have to go _now_ , so – ” Misty says, stuffing all the things in their arms into a satchel made by discarded bedsheets. “Here, here, give me the babe,” they say, gesturing for Harry even as they pull the satchel onto their back.

Whisk, disoriented after the hurried popping and Misty’s rushing, shuffles Harry over with little fuss. “What – wait, Misty, where are you _going –_ ”

Misty stops, then looks up at Whisk with a solemn expression. “Anazey,” they say gravely.

Whisk’s world halts for a moment. The mere notion of taking a human to Anazey is so shocking that she can’t quite wrap her mind around it –

but then it clicks, and she nods. “He’ll have to take an oath,” she says sternly. “The blessed secret cannot be revealed to humankind.”

“Of course,” Misty says, and the tone of hurry is back in their voice. “Of course he has to, I knew that, but we _must go **now –**_ ”

Whisk lunges forward and grabs hold of Misty’s elbow moments before they pop out of the mansion. She thinks, briefly, that she’ll have to come back for Tops later –

and then they’re standing at the outskirts of a forest and Misty is running towards the dale littered with houses in the distance. “A healer!” they holler, “I need a healer!”

There were already some elves alerted to their presence when they popped in, but now more of them swarm over. Several are wearing the white colors of the healer elves. Whisk hears some mutters of _human_ and _boy_ and _curse wound_ , hopes that Misty has things under control, and pops back to the mansion.

She needs to pack her things and alert Tops of Misty’s hurried plan.

They’re officially outlaws by wizard law – and, by extension, elf law, too.

Well. Hopefully they’ll be able to explain themselves.

*

Tops is hiding inside a cupboard when Whisk appears by his side. “What –” she asks.

He shushes her frantically. “Wizards,” he whispers, calloused hand covering her mouth before she can stop him. “All over the place.”

Whisk stares. “Why?”

Tops nods towards the cupboard door and Whisk carefully nudges it open with her knee.

She listens.

And then she listens a bit more.

She swallows. “A prophecy,” she whispers. “Young Harry is the chosen one…?” Outside of the cupboard several wizards and witches are running around, frantic and desperate tones to their voices as they search through the house. Shaking her head, she turns back to Tops. Worries like these can be pushed aside for now; questions can be answered at any time. There are more pressing problems right now. “Did you get what I asked for?”

Tops nods, folding aside his simple pillowcase clothing to show off a few gathered trinkets. “I don’t dare look for more,” he whispers. “They’re aurors; they’ll notice me.”

Whisk nods. There’d been a few flashes of red through the open creak in the cupboard. “Misty’s gone with Harry to Anazey,” she whispers. “We need to pack and follow them.”

He blinks, his eyes widening to unhealthy sizes. Not spending even a second on hesitating, he grabs her arm and pops into Potter mansion.

Silence rings for one moment, then two –

“ _What_!?” Tops cries, the shrill word bouncing and echoing off the mansion walls. “They took him to _Anazey_? What about – Saint Mungos, or – or – ”

Whisk puts a calming hand on his shoulder. “The letter said to raise him as though he were our own,” she says gently. “He’ll have to take an oath not to reveal the existence of Anazey, but if Misty says he needs house elf healers, I trust them on that.”

Tops looks at her for a long, long moment. Then he huffs and looks away. “Fine,” he mutters, “but don’t come crying to me when things don’t work out.”

She smiles, relieved at him resigning. “I won’t,” she says.

*

Whisk looks around Anazey in nothing short of awe. It’s been ages since she was here last – obviously, since it’s ages since she was a child – and it hasn’t changed one bit. A few more huts and tents as the population has grown, sure, but otherwise it’s mostly the same.

Tops, however, was raised in an African zeyl and has never been to Anazey before – although he, of course, is familiar with the concept. It’s not like the rules or cultures of zeyls differ throughout the world; they’re just found in different locations.

There are children messing around all over the place, either playing or running errands for their caretakers. Whisk looks for the familiar dusted blue of an informant, spots one, and gently stops the teenaged elf. “Sorry,” she says, and the teen turns wide purple eyes to her. “I’m looking for healer Misty – they arrived a bit earlier today – ?”

The teen lights up. “The one with the human child?” they ask. Whisk nods. “Right over there,” they say, pointing at one of the healer huts scattered around in the town.

“Thank you,” Whisk mutters, before hurrying off in that direction. She’s already formed bonds to the young human boy, and she’s been away from him for a tad longer than necessary.

She bursts into the healer hut, Tops at her heels –

only to find Misty sitting on one of the beds, cradling a still Harry in their arms. Their expression is somber, their eyes shine with unshed tears –

oh, no.

“…Misty?” Whisk asks, taking a cautious step closer. “Is he okay?”

Slowly Misty shakes their head. “We were too late,” they croak.

Whisk gasps, slapping a hand over their mouth –

“He’s not dead,” Misty hurries to assure her, “but there is… there is a dark and terrible thing residing within him. It’s anchored to his wound,” they explain, gently shifting Harry’s weight to show them the cut on his forehead. “It’s stuck to him, now, and it’ll cause more harm than good if we attempt to remove it. It might lash out at harsh treatment.”

A maternal instinct she didn’t even know she had flares up in her, and she takes a step closer. “What do we do, then?”

“Wait,” Misty says, turning back to Harry with a gentle frown. “We’ll have to wait for three whole years. The _thing_ will be weakest, then, and might go without much of a fight. After that we must wait six years, and then twelve, and then twenty-four… and so on.”

Whisk steps forward, doesn’t even look at Misty, and takes the baby from their arms.

Master James had asked her to raise him as though he was her own…

“Harry James Potter,” she whispers, holding him up for the two others in the room to see. “A human child to be raised as a house elf…” She lowers him again, bringing him to her chest. “My child.”

Harry squirms, perhaps finally waking up after he passed out hours ago. He makes a garbled cooing sound.

“Are we really doing this?” Tops asks from over by the door.

“We all read the letter,” Misty says dejectedly. “Harry is our child, and we must raise him accordingly.”

Whisk gasps. “We need to learn proper English!” she exclaims. “The poor child can’t go to Hogwarts without knowing how to speak proper English!”

Tops grimaces. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

Misty rolls their eyes. “He’s a _human child_ , Tops. Of course it’s a lot of work.”

“At least we’re three about it,” Tops mutters.

“Four,” Whisk butts in. “We’re four, counting Harry.”

Silence. “…yeah,” Tops allows. “We’re four in this.” For the first time he steps over to young Harry, glancing down at him before allowing himself a brief smile. “He’s cute. I’ll give him that.”

Misty cackles. “Oh, he’ll have that and more before long, Tops,” she says, hopping off the side of the bed to join them adoring Harry. “He already has my heart.”

And Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, the Boy-Who-Lived, looks up at his new parents with wide eyes.

He has no idea that his world has just changed and spiralled out of control.


	3. Intermission #1 - James' Letter

_James Potter’s letter to Whisk, a Worker House Elf:_

This missive concerns all house elves working under the Potter name, however, it is directed specifically to Whisk; the bloodtrue Potter and a Worker House Elf. Should anything untoward happen to the current heads of the Potter family, namely James Fleamont Potter and Lily Potter nee Evans, rendering them unable to raise and care for their firstborn, namely Harry James Potter, the house elves are to perform this task.

Whisk and any other house elves working for the Potter name will raise him as though he was their own child. They will care for him, love him, and dote on him as any parent should. They will protect him, teach him, and train him. He shall know of wizard culture, of his parents, and wizard ways – teach him to the best of your ability. When the time comes, he will be enrolled into Hogwarts, and you will have prepared him for what that means.

Harry James Potter will not be considered any house elf's master until such time as the receipt of his Hogwarts acceptance letter. However, if he makes a request you deem acceptable, you are free to perform it to the best of your ability in the spirit of friendship, protection, love etc - but Harry Potter will not be considered any elf's master until the arrival of his eleventh birthday and his Hogwarts acceptance letter. Simply put, look after my son as if he's your own, but do not accept him as your master until this time.

Do the right thing, Whisk.

Tell him I love him, now and forever.

_James Fleamont Potter, head of House Potter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I say this in all my stories, I might as well say it again.
> 
> The comment count is lying to you!!
> 
> Here's how to do it:
> 
> Divide the number of comments (x) on the number of chapters (y). Then divide the answer by two.
> 
> This is because several people comment on every single chapter of a story, meaning that when you divide comments on the number of chapters you find out how many people have commented (approximately; there are of course exceptions to the rule) on each chapter. Then, because I reply (or try to reply - if I don't answer your comment it's because I was never alerted to it) to every comment I get, you should also divide the number on two.
> 
> Ta-da! The number you now have should be way smaller than the one the counter gives you. That's also the number of people have commented on my story!
> 
> (Example using the current numbers: 12 comments : 2 chapters = 6. 6 : 2 = 3)
> 
> I'm saying this because a lot of people are not aware of this! On a lot of big works here on ao3, a lot of people check the comment counter and go "oh! my comment doesn't matter, they already have so many!" Spoilers: we don't actually have that many, and even if we do, OF COURSE your comment matters!


	4. Chapter 4

“Harry!” Whisk calls. “Harry, don’t forget your hat!” The house elves around Anazey are better dressed than some house elves serving wizarding families, but they still don’t need nearly as much clothes as young Harry.

The boy, aged almost two, comes running back to the hut Whisk shares with Misty and Tops. “Sorry ma,” he lisps, offering her a sheepish smile before accepting the hat she holds out to him.

“Have fun with Eris!” she yells after his retreating back, a fond smile on her lips. It’s nice to see him finding friends among his littermates – the young elves are just as accepting as him, despite their numerous differences.

She glances back into the hut and groans quietly to herself upon spotting the gloves hanging on the wall. Whether he’s leaving them behind on purpose or not she does not know, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating or worrisome. The first month or so had been stressful – none of them were any good with children, be they human or elf, and it took some time before they found a Nanny Elf willing to teach them some tips and tricks.

Well, that’s all in the past now, and they do at least know _something_ about how to raise human children – at least when it comes to his health. The embarrassing times of putting far too much or not at all enough clothes on him are beyond them, thank Merlin.

When Harry returns later that day, his cheeks are flushed dark, dark red and his lips are dry from the cold. It doesn’t stop him from beaming, even when his lips crack painfully. Misty chastises him gently, dabbing cotton on his mouth before pulling out a chapstick from Merlin knows where.

Whisk watches from her bed as she patches up a new and slightly warmer pillow case for Tops. She’d asked him if he wanted something else to wear, at which he’d given a disgusted grunt.

(“Why on Earth would I do that? I’m an Assistant Elf and this is my uniform, come on, Whisk, you know this –”)

She smiles and returns to her sewing work.

*

They’re walking to go get more water for Misty who’s healing a wounded cat. Harry has been asking constantly why they’re not just fixing it with magic, but Whisk understands. There’s only so much house elf magic can do, and sometimes it’s better to do it manually. She’s tried to explain it to him, but he’s only looked confused this far.

Harry’s bouncing ahead of her on the trail. He’s as tall as the adults, now, and will only become taller as the years go by. At the time he’ll receive his Hogwarts letter he’ll tower above them all.

He hasn’t noticed that he’s different yet. She’s going to wait until he asks – she doesn’t want to spring the news on him without him being prepared for it. Perhaps he’s simply too young to see it…

He throws her a smile over his shoulder, and Whisk smiles warmly back. It doesn’t matter what he is; he’s her child anyway.

They walk past a group of five-year olds huddled together beneath the shade of a tree. By the looks of it they’re receiving a lecture on how to best bake bread, and at least half of them are staring attentively at the elder teacher. Harry slows, then stops completely, staring at them with wide eyes. Whisk walks up to him and raises an eyebrow. “Ma,” he says, “they are doing what?”

Whisk doesn’t correct his Täk, understanding that he’d already known some very basic English when his parents died and that the sentence structures there would mess up his learning process. “They’re getting cooking lessons, Harry,” she explains, hoisting the buckets into her arms. “On bread, if I’m not mistaken.”

Harry turns wide, sparkling green eyes at her. They’re unnerving; no house elf has eyes that bright. Unnerving does not mean ugly, though, and Whisk finds them to be some of the prettiest parts of him. Other than his bubbling personality, of course. “Can I too?”

She almost bursts into laughter; how sweet of him, wanting to join in on lessons already – but he’s only two, and proper house elf lessons will start when he’s five. Still, that doesn’t mean she can’t teach him some of what she knows in the privacy of their own hut. “Later,” she promises, “but now we need to get water for rennie.”

Rennie being Misty, of course. It had come as a surprise when he’d spoken the three words ma, pa, and rennie. None of them have complained this far. Well, Tops has come with some good-natured grumbling, but she knows he’s touched by the gesture.

“Oh!” Harry says, apparently having forgotten about their mission already. “Yes!”

They start walking again. Harry casts quite a few longing gazes behind him when they move on.

The third time Whisk hoists the buckets further into her arms, she sighs and comes to a stop. “Harry, my sweet, could you be an angel and take a bucket for me?”

Harry nearly stumbles in his hurry to take one of the buckets. “’Course, ma,” he says, offering her yet another beam.

“Angel boy,” Whisk mutters gratefully. He’d make an excellent house elf.

*

It’s summer again, and Harry’s forcefully shoved away every single hat, glove, and jacket he owns. Instead he’s embraced the skins Whisk has sown for him – it’s nothing much, just a blanket made to fit him with some furry edges that’d been a gift from a badger he rescued and nursed to health (with Misty’s help, of course). He doesn’t like to be different, and wearing more clothes than the elves his age is obviously bothering him.

Sunlight pierces through the windows in their small hut. Harry’s starting to grow taller; they’ll need to expand soon if they want him to still fit inside. Tops is currently showing Harry how to properly clean a casserole. Whisk would’ve shown him herself, but she’s been busy gathering corn the whole day.

“See, you move the sponge like this,” Tops explains gently, moving his hands in circular motions inside of the pot. “It would take ages on its own, so to speed it up you’ll use a touch of magic.”

Harry is staring at him with an intense look, chewing on his lower lip as he focuses. “How do that?” he asks, looking up into Tops’ eyes without breaking his concentration. “The magic.”

Tops tenses, then looks up at Whisk with desperate eyes. She understands his worry; they have no idea whether Harry can use magic the way they can or not. They don’t even know if he would _want_ to use it like that.

“You know what, Harry,” Whisk says, putting down the round stone she’d been using to grind the corn into flour. “I think we should go check that out right now.”

Five minutes later they’re standing in the tent of one of the most renowned Teacher Elves, this one specifying within the branch of house elf magic. If all goes well, she’ll be Harry’s teacher some years down the road. If they don’t… well, then it’s better to know that now than then.

“Apologies for disturbing you, Teacher Lilo, miss,” Whisk says, bowing gently before the middle-aged elf. Harry hurries to follow her example. “But we would like to find out if Harry will ever be able to practice magic the way we do.”

Teacher Lilo blinks at her. “You want to know if a human can practice elf magic?” she repeats. Whisk nods hurriedly, her own ears slapping her cheeks. Teacher Lilo tilts her head. “Come here,” she says, gesturing for Harry to come closer. Harry obeys immediately, to Whisk’s great pleasure. Teacher Lilo pats his cheek and stands up, walking around him in a circle before snapping her fingers in front of his eyes.

Nothing happens.

“Hm,” Teacher Lilo says.

Then she pushes at Harry’s shoulders, prompting him to sit down on the ground. She proceeds to gently tug at his stiff curls, raking her fingers through it before prodding his cheek again.

Whisk stands by the entrance, a tad worried for her young child. He would be devastated if it turns out it’s impossible for him to practice the same magic as his caretakers.

“Hold this,” Teacher Lilo says, handing Harry a polished, black crystal the size of his fist.

Harry’s fingers touch the crystal and it lights up in a dozen different colors, shades of red and blue the most common amongst them. Whisk lets out a soft gasp while Harry simply stares, the light reflected on his face and in his eyes.

Teacher Lilo chuckles drily to herself. “I’d say it’s quite possible, oh yes, indeed.” She takes the crystal back from him, and it turns black once more. “He’s adept at it as well – far from weak, oh yes.”

“How do you know?” Harry asks, curiosity in his voice. He blinks, then hurries to add, “Teacher Lilo, miss.”

Whisk winces, hoping to all the stars that he hasn’t offended her –

but Teacher Lilo only laughs. “This, young seed, is a special crystal that detects magic in the individuals who touch it. Different colors mean different types of magic.” She looks away from Harry, meeting Whisk’s gaze. “Consequently, house elf magic is a type of magic that, when it must take a shape, takes the shape of water, the sky, the color blue, or flying creatures.” She winks. “Young Harry is practically a house elf already.”

Whisk offers the teacher a relieved and warm smile, bowing deeply again. “Thank you, Teacher Lilo, miss,” she whispers, “thank you so much.”

Teacher Lilo waves her gratitude away, and Whisk hurries to drag Harry out of the tent before he can ask any more intruding questions. She does, however, plan to praise him for his politeness.

What she hasn’t taken into consideration is Harry’s increasing confusion about himself.

*

“Ma,” Harry says – tentatively, quietly – “Pa, rennie?”

Whisk looks up from her sewing. Misty and Tops, who’d been having a quiet conversation about the best use of bandages, glance up at him.

He looks like his whole world has shattered a thousand times over. “Who am I?”

The three of them share a brief glance. Tops jabs his chin pointedly in Harry’s direction; Misty looks down at their hands.

Whisk sighs. Fine. She’ll take this one.

“You, my dear child,” she says, standing up and walking over to him. She takes his hands – chubbier than hers, skin darker than hers will ever be. “Are Harry James Potter. Your father was my late master, your mother my mistress – they couldn’t raise you, and left you in my – our – care.”

He’s taller than her at this point, a healthy 3 feet rather than her 2 and a half. It doesn’t change the fact that he looks terrified, his green eyes wide and shocked. The scar on his forehead stands bright and stark against his skin, his curls covering the top of it. His ears, rounded and tiny, poke out from the unruly hair.

He’s never looked more human than he does in this moment.

“I’m not a house elf?” he whispers. His voice trembles; his grip on her hands tighten.

Whisk smiles – gently, carefully, not wanting to shatter this poor boy – and reaches out to cup his cheek. She shakes her head slowly. “No,” she whispers. “But you’ll always be an elf to me.”

He sniffs. Then he nods, biting his lip before taking a step forward and hugging her. She hugs back, and soon Misty joins them, wrapping their spindly arms around Harry’s torso. Even Tops comes over after a few seconds.

Whisk closes her eyes and sighs. He doesn’t even know half of his history – that will have to wait until he’s older. Five, perhaps – that would be a good timing. There’s no need to tell him everything yet. No child should bear the knowledge that their parents were murdered at such a tender age.

“Go to bed, now, dearest,” Whisk whispers, and with another sniff Harry pulls back. “You can play with Eris again tomorrow.”

Harry nods. Then he turns to Tops. “Pa?” he asks quietly. “Sing for me?”

Tops bristles beneath Harry’s pleading look, then casts Misty and Whisk a glance that clearly screams _not one word_. “Why not,” he grumbles, walking after Harry into their shared bedroom. “The one you like?”

“Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important question! Do you want shorter chapters every day/every second day (aka as soon as i write them) or do you want longer chapters once a week? Please leave a comment telling me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Going a week between updates? yea

It’s October 31st, 1984. Harry is four years and two months, and it’s time to remove the thing lodged into his scar.

He’s been informed of what is about to happen, of course. They can’t have him not understanding when they’re fully capable of explaining.

Something about the tenseness in his shoulders tells Whisk that, had he had a choice, he would have agreed to it anyway. There’s determination in his pose, a sort of half-choked bravery in the lines around his mouth.

They’re gathered around the Magic Circle of Anazey. It’s the place where magic pools easily at their fingertips, the core of their little world. Where they go to perform larger spells and rituals, where they go to seek refugee from their own demons.

And now Harry stands at its midpoint, a Healer and Shaman Elf before him. Whisk, Misty and Tops are huddled close at the outskirts of the rim. Whisk is worried, something terribly in fact, and while Misty’s appearing calm and collected, they’re chewing on their fingernails. Tops is really the only calm one of them; he’s been assured time and time again by Misty that Harry will be fine, and is apparently the only one among them that’s taken that assurance to heart.

The sun dips down over the forest in the distance. Its beams turn from bright to darkened, molten gold.

Misty locks gazes with the Shaman and nods.

The Shaman nods back, then turns to Harry. “Now, young river, this might hurt a bit.”

Harry nods; he’s been told several times by both Whisk and Misty that it’s going to be a bit painful for a moment. He’d understood. Had even said that everything hurts sometimes. He’s tripped before and he’ll trip again.

He seems to stand by that statement even now.

The Shaman steps back and the Healer moves forward.

“Some salve,” she says, softly and gently, before reaching for Harry’s forehead and brushing her fingers against his scar, “to make the process easier.”

Then she steps back, too.

And Harry’s alone in the circle.

The Healer begins to sing, low and melancholy tones, too long-drawn sounds for Whisk to recognize any words. The song echoes through their surroundings, crawling up her bones and trembling in her heart.

Just when the song fades into background noise the Shaman joins in. It’s the same long-drawn sounds, but darker, stronger, a clear vocal against the Healer’s melody.

Magic, ever so present in this place, is tugged towards the two of them. It crackles, whips – once, twice –

and then it bursts through the air, shooting off towards Harry. It snaps into his chest – and then there’s silence.

Harry inhales sharply.

Whisk holds her breath, heart thudding painfully against her ribs. Misty’s hand is in hers, their nails digging into Whisk’s skin. Tops is holding her other hand, and he’s sure to be irritated at the bruises later, but now he’s still as a stone.

A moment, then another –

Harry screams. He falls to his knees and screams again, loud and piercing, a terrible and terrifying screech that’s more beast than human.

The song of the ritual continues.

Whisk is about to burst forward, to stop it, to help him, to _save her boy_ –

but Tops has an arm around her chest and Misty’s holding on to her arm, and she struggles against them but can’t get loose no matter what she does –

the screaming goes on for some time more. Whisk sobs in Tops’ arms – it’s like she’s screaming herself, and she wants to _help_ him –

after something that feels like years Harry finally stills. The magic slowly returns to the air around them, pouring out of Harry’s scar.

It’s carrying something.

And while the song of the ritual slowly fades, the magic brings whatever it is over to the Shaman. He takes the thing gently, his face paling.

Whisk doesn’t care for what the thing is, it’s out of her child and her child is in pain –

she tears free from Misty and Tops’ grasp and _bolts_ towards Harry, falling to the ground beside him, hands on his shoulders and arms.

“Harry,” she whispers, frantically helping him sit up, pulling him against her – “Harry, dear heart, Harry – ”

He groans quietly, a soft sound that means that he at least is alive, and Whisk almost starts crying all over again. “M… ma?”

“Yes,” Whisk whispers, pressing her lips against the crown of his head, “yes, sweet, I’m here – ”

Harry doesn’t say anything – it would hurt too much, probably –, but he does fold against her, wrapping his arms around her torso with a quiet whine.

Whisk rocks him, carefully, gently –

A hand is placed on her shoulder. “Whisk.”

It’s Tops.

Misty is standing behind him, pinching something thin and dark between their fingers. It looks like silk, but greasy and slippery. They look disgusted.

“It’s still in him,” Tops says quietly. Whisk tenses. “That was just half.”

Whisk tightens her grip on Harry. “Do we have to go again?”

Misty shakes their head. “Not for another six years,” they whisper.

Closing her eyes, Whisk nods shakily.

At least he has time to heal, first.

*

And heal he does. His throat is sore from all the terrible screaming, and he has to refrain from talking too much for a week or so, but it _does_ heal, thank the Gods. His behavior doesn’t change. He’s still the same person, to Whisk’s great relief. She’s not sure what she would’ve done had her sweet boy disappeared.

He’s as happy as ever – almost happier, in fact, easier to talk to and taking to new information quicker than before.

But if he thinks that Whisk doesn’t notice the way he shies away from the Magic Circle, then he’s a fool.

*

A few weeks go by. Harry comes home one day, after playing with Eris, and is offering everyone wide beams. “I love animals!” he says. “I love them all!”

He takes a liking to them, around that age. Animals of all kinds are welcome by his side; birds, canines, felines, fish, reptiles…

reptiles in particular, actually.

The first day Harry returns home with a viper coiled around his arm is one of the most frightening days of Whisk’s life. It gets better, but only a little bit, when he reveals that he can talk to it. She’s introduced to it – apparently a female named Ushio – and then Harry begs Misty to heal her.

The snake is healed and sent on its way, and then Harry is sat down to have a serious conversation about dangerous animals.

Harry nods along the whole time, polite boy as he is, and at the end assures them all that the snake wanted him no harm. “Still,” Tops says, brows furrowed, “be careful around animals – especially ones you don’t understand, or ones that are hurt. They can be incredibly dangerous.”

“I get it, pa,” Harry says, ducking his head.

Tops grimaces. “Now, none of that,” he mutters. “You do whatever, of course. We just don’t want you to be hurt.”

“Can’t rennie just heal me if something happens?” Harry asks, confused, as he tilts his head back up again.

The three elves exchange glances. “We won’t always be there to help you, Harry,” Misty says, sitting down beside him on the bed. “You need to know to take care of yourself.”

Whisk brings a hand to her forehead. Only half a year, now, and they can start his education. Only a few more months.

“Only a few more months,” Tops whispers to her, and she snorts into her hand.

“Indeed.”


End file.
